


Eggnog and Homicide

by batonblue



Series: Loosely Sequential Brimel One-Shots [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Christmas Eve, Christmas Fluff, Drama & Romance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Male Slash, Mental Health Issues, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Protectiveness, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:02:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21944053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/batonblue/pseuds/batonblue
Summary: Malcolm and JT spend their first Christmas Eve together.  As usual, things don’t exactly go to plan.  One-Shot.(Tags for established relationship, angst, drama and plentiful fluff.  Warnings for language, mild sexual content, religious bigotry, and homophobia)
Relationships: Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright/JT Tarmel
Series: Loosely Sequential Brimel One-Shots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1587901
Comments: 28
Kudos: 123





	Eggnog and Homicide

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eringeosphere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eringeosphere/gifts), [theyhulk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyhulk/gifts), [McRaider](https://archiveofourown.org/users/McRaider/gifts), [Rosedraquia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosedraquia/gifts).



“Do you believe in god?”

JT blinks at Malcolm once. Slowly.

“No,” he says, because it’s the simplest possible answer to a complex question.

It’s almost six o’clock on Christmas Eve. The entire precinct had spent the day with their nose to the grindstone, optimistic enough to believe they might make it out on time and spend a few rare days with their families. 

Naturally, the call came in as they were gathering up jackets and briefcases and heading for the door. With a little less than their usual enthusuiasm, they responded to find a B-list socialite laying in a pool of blood in his mansion on the upper east side. 

Bright hums a noise of acknowledgment. He crouches by the body, tossing his scarf out of the way over his shoulder as he pulls on latex gloves.

JT looks both ways across the large room, silently hoping for witnesses to another predictably bizarre line of conversation, and finds he’s on his own for this one.

“Why?” He finally asks flatly, when nothing else is forthcoming, knowing full well he’s taking the bait. His curiosity is getting the best of him, and he should really know better by now.

“Just curious.”

“Oh, okay.” JT scrunches up his face sarcastically, not believing it for a second. “Just making super casual conversation. Copy that.”

Malcolm is delicately opening the victim’s mouth, staring into the throat and nostrils with intense concentration.

“Well it’s that time of year, you know how people start getting religious.”

“...Christmas, you mean?”

“Yes, that.”

JT puffs up his cheeks and blows a long breath out, absently watching Gil across the room. The lieutenant is pointing out flecks of blood and viscous brain matter to a scene tech. He’s not going to save JT.

“Do you want to come to service with me tonight?”

The cop’s eyes glide back to the profiler, who’s crouched over the body with his elbows on his knees, looking up at him.

“Like… church?”

“Yeah.” Bright nods like it should be obvious, wiping his nose with his sleeve.

“Why didn’t you just open with that,” JT grumbles, bewildered, “why come in with all this god nonsense?”

Bright finally has the good grace to look a little sheepish. “It was the first thing that popped into my head?”

“Jesus Christ.”

“So you _are_ religious.”

JT opens his mouth to fire back something that starts with _listen here you little shit,_ but Malcolm is saved by the bell when Dani ambles over.

“Gil says to finish processing and go home,” she seems happy to share the news. “We can get an early start on Friday; labs should be back by then.”

“Excellent,” Malcolm beams, bouncing to his feet and turning a blinding smile on JT. “We have time to get you a suit!”

Dani’s eyebrows shoot up into her hairline as she throws a pointed look between the two men. 

“Well, wait,” JT starts by gesturing to the body, agitated by the sudden attention, “let’s ah, prioritize—anyways, I already _have_ a suit.”

“What about a nice coat?”  
  


Dani, merciless as ever, has no idea what they’re talking about but jumps in anyways. “Oh yeah. If you wear a nice suit, you need a nice coat.”

JT shakes his head at her, betrayed. “Look, I never said I was going—”

“You’re not going?” Malcolm stops everything to look at him, like he’s trying to be casual but is secretly invested in JT’s answer.

“You’re _not going_?” Dani echoes with an air of innocence. 

“I didn’t say that either!” Flustered, JT jabs a finger at Dani. “Stop stirring the pot, dammit!”

She raises both hands in a gesture of surrender, but it’s clear she’s greatly enjoying the sight of JT floundering for his life. She wanders off as Gil waves her over, motivated by the prospect of an early escape from work.

The second she’s gone JT turns to Malcolm, dropping his voice for the illusion of privacy.

“Since when do you go to church?”

“Oh, I don’t.” Malcolm is snapping photos of the body with his cellphone. “It’s a yearly thing, my mother always insists on dragging us along with her.”

“Your mother…” JT’s brain is skipping like a scratched record. “Just so I’m clear on this, you’re inviting me to church, on Christmas Eve, with your mom.”

“And Ainsley.” 

JT stares at him, throws another furtive glance around the room for eavesdropping ears. The space is crowded, but everyone has a job, busy with their own work and driven by the possibility of getting home to their families in time for the holiday festivities. 

“You uh… think that’s a good idea?”

Bright finally drops the pretense of working and stuffs both his hands deep into his coat pockets with a sigh, half-turns to face the detective. “Yes? No…. I don’t know. I wanted to get your take on it.”

JT studies his face, trying to figure out what he’s thinking. Weighs the options. His knee-jerk reaction is to balk at the concept, to say it’s too soon, too new. 

After circling each other for nearly a year, it took the stressful events of the past few months to tip them over the edge into something less than platonic. And they might not have put a name to it, might be glazing it over with professionalism by day and stolen hours at night, but it’s something _real_. 

JT’s never been so sure of anything in his life.

Malcolm is avoiding his eyes, which the cop knows by now is unusual. The same way the profiler seeks out eye contact to stay alert, stay reading the people around him, he avoids it when he doesn’t want that same scrutiny turned on him.

At first JT thinks Malcolm is only asking out of courtesy, false bravado. Trying to be polite. 

He thinks now it might be something else. 

“Only got the gray suit,” he grumbles at last as his resolve caves, “guess I’ll borrow a coat.”

Malcolm’s blue eyes light up like neon, electric and hypnotizing. The smile that nearly splits his face in half is JT’s silent reward, telling him louder than any words that he made the right call. 

**.**

  
  


JT doesn’t need to borrow a coat after all. Malcolm shows up at his apartment while the cop’s still struggling with his tie, presents him with a large garment box adorned with a massive green bow. 

“I know we’re a day early,” Malcolm tells him, “but it felt like the right time.”

The cop doesn’t point out how many times they’ve already had this conversation, insisting over and over that they didn’t need anything and definitely wouldn’t be exchanging gifts. He thinks he knew all along that the entire time Malcolm was lying through his teeth.

“Brunello Cucinelli…” JT butchers the syllables as he tries to read off the tag, “I can’t even pronounce this shit.”

“Luckily, you don’t have to pronounce it.” Bright looks infinitely pleased with himself as he takes it upon himself to redo the cop’s tie. “You just have to try it on.”

JT obliges, shrugging soft black wool over his shoulders. Even over his suit, it fits like a glove. He thinks it’s probably safe to assume he could pay off his car with the price tag.

“It fits,” Bright says, and it’s only a few words but his voice is loaded with meaning. He sounds indescribably happy, and JT loves the sound of it. “What do you think?”  
  


JT stares at himself in the mirror and stretches out his arms, admiring the way the coat moves with him, warm and thick and elegant. Thinks it’s downright impressive, and more than a little flattering that Malcolm was able to get his size right just by looking at him. 

“I think I should probably say thank you,” JT offers a wide smile, pulling Bright against his body. 

Malcolm all but melts in his arms, and watching him smile like that does funny things to the cop’s heart. It immediately makes him feel guilty for being so distant.

Between the two of them, JT is far more reserved about physical contact. Especially in public. Which in turn makes Malcolm jumpy about it, which makes for some awkward situations in general as they try to navigate the unspoken rules and boundaries that exist like a force field between them. It’s difficult; tenuous and fragile.

JT knows he’s the root of it, old fears and prejudices plaguing his mind like a bad cough too stubborn to shake. He’s a deeply physical person, in everything he does, and the barrier of convention and nerves that sits between them most days is agonizing. 

There are so many moments when he looks over at Bright, sees him standing there looking like a piece of JT’s heart that tore itself out and started walking around, and he wants nothing more in the world than to walk over and hug him. The straight-to-your-bones kind of hug that borders on painful and says _everything_ , the kind where you can’t breathe right but you still don’t want to let go.

And then there are moments when he wants to grab Malcolm by his obnoxious face and _kiss_ him senseless in front of everyone. 

And maybe JT’s not a profiler, maybe he can’t tell what Bright had for breakfast or what his every subtle twitch and movement mean as they come and go. He’s still not a mind reader, not good with the unspoken, subtle things. 

He thinks he’s getting there, though.

Alone in his apartment, wearing the single nicest piece of clothing he’s ever owned and somehow lucky enough to be holding Bright too, JT kisses him. 

**.**

A limo picks them up from Malcolm’s apartment. 

JT tries to act casual as he pulls his new coat around his body and ducks inside, like he takes limo rides every other day and this isn’t the weirdest thing he’s done this year.

“Hello mother,” Malcolm greets with an air of longsuffering as he unbottons his suit jacket and gracefully takes a seat opposite hers.

“Malcolm,” she sing-songs pleasantly, before turning her eyes on the cop. “When you told me you were bringing a friend, I was hoping she’d be a blonde.”

“Life is full of little disappointments.” Bright doesn’t sound sorry, but shoots an apologetic glance at JT all the same.

Sitting a respectful distance away from Malcolm on heated leather seats, JT offers a polite smile first to Jessica and then Ainsley, who is sitting across from him in an expensive-looking pant suit. She’s buried in her phone, an expression of intense concentration on her face.

“Malcolm, did you work this case?” She flashes her phone towards her brother, looking suspicious. “It’s all over the news right now.”

“Nice to see you too.” Bright is infinitely patient with the two women, a trait JT wonders if he’d have the grace to share in a similar situation. 

The car pulls away from the curb, the dome light dimming to a soft glow. 

“Detective Tarmel,” Jessica purrs as she turns her full attention on him. “What a surprise to see you again.”

She’s the polar opposite of Bright, JT thinks as he smiles politely at her, feeling like he’s in over his head. All control and calculation and power. A woman who is accustomed to people listening when she speaks.

“Thank you for having me.” The cop defaults to etiquette, knowing she just asked him a question in her own way, and knowing just as well that he’s not prepared to answer it.

She smiles at him, keeps eye contact for longer than is comfortable, like she’s reading him. Maybe she and Bright do have one or two things in common, after all.

Malcolm seamlessly interjects himself into the uncomfortable silence, asking his mother about her charity work and her plans for New Year’s. He even manages to get Ainsley, who is clearly being held against her will during this particular family outing, to look up from her phone a few times. 

The drive to Saint Thomas feels long, the car a little too warm by the time they arrive. JT takes a bracing breath of fresh air as the driver opens the door for them.

It’s snowing, JT realizes as he straightens his creaking back and waits on the sidewalk for Malcolm to join him. The cop catches his eye, shrugs his shoulders inside his new coat and winks. 

They file inside, following Jessica and Ainsley who are walking with linked arms, exchanging greetings in hushed tones with people JT doesn’t recognize.

A massive sanctuary opens up in front of them and the cop tries not to stare. He fails miserably.

The interior of the church is all muted colors and dancing candlelight, an organ playing somewhere towards the altar. The ceiling looms wide open several stories above them, stone pillars and stained glass catching the light in the dim shadows. A smell like smokey incense fills the air, and he can’t figure out where it’s coming from but it’s thick and overbearing in his nostrils. Without knowing why, he’s nervous all over again. 

He follows Malcolm, who doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest by their extravagant environment. Countless rows of velvet-lined pews stretch on by the dozen down gently sloping aisles, sharply-dressed families filing in quietly to find their seats.

“Oh, so you guys go to rich white people churches,” JT says under his breath as he leans towards Bright, careful not to be overheard.

Malcolm snorts, manages to cover it up like a cough as Jessica throws a dirty look over her shoulder at him. 

JT fights back a smirk. He thinks he can be on his best behavior for an hour or two, thinks maybe this won’t be so bad after all. 

He’s acutely aware of the pressure he’s under, a blue-collar intruder in Malcolm’s world. More accurately, he thinks, it’s his mother's world. And he’s been an observer so many times, intruding into million-dollar homes that have suddenly become crime scenes, stepping into towering penthouses just long enough to interview witnesses and suspects. Little peeks and glimpses without any real interaction. 

This is different. And not just because he’s suddenly rubbing elbows with the kind of people who buy Boeings when they get bored. It’s the unspoken implication of being introduced to Malcolm’s family, if not by title, then by the clear demonstration that he’s somebody who exists as a fixture in the kid’s life. 

It’s juvenile in a way, but he’s determined to make a good impression.

A man with silver hair and a white collar takes the pulpit, reads something in a tone that makes the cop zone out. He beckons for the congregation to rise, a white-clad choir filing in as the organ music swells. 

JT stands with his hands clasped in front of him, chin raised to avoid the collar of his uncomfortable dress shirt. Wonders if he looks as out of place as he feels or if he’ll be able to bluff his way into fitting into the crowd. 

He sings along to Silent Night because everyone else is, catches the amazed way Bright is staring at him out of the corner of his eye.

“I didn’t know you could sing like that,” Bright leans close to say, his voice a low hum over the choir.

JT huffs out a chuckle, whispering back. “What can I say? I’m a renaissance man.”

Malcolm smiles in a way that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle, presses his arm against JT’s for a telling heartbeat. Leans away quickly to avoid making the cop uncomfortable. 

JT lets his fingers relax, his left arm falling down to brush against Malcolm’s. He takes the pale hand in his own and squeezes.

For as long as he lives, he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the expression of pure happiness that comes over Bright’s face. The profiler doesn’t stare too long, turns his eyes back towards the pulpit, but the hand in JT’s grips him back tight. Like he’s more than just a cop standing in a towering temple, feeling like an unwelcome imposter. Like he means something.

The rest of the service is comfortably boring, the priest reading off familiar passages and leading long prayers. By the time it ends JT has relaxed, and thinks it has less to do with the environment and more with the warm hand that’s remained firmly in his own, clasped between their bodies like a secret. 

After mass ends and the crowds start to slowly disperse, JT lingers awkwardly, unsure what to do with himself. Jessica has long since wandered away to exchange pleasantries with someone she knows, leaving them waiting for her in the candlelight and eerie organ music.

He can’t help noticing that Malcolm only looks slightly less uncomfortable than JT feels. This isn’t his comfort zone either, the cop thinks. He came to placate his mother, to stand on old traditions for her sake. JT can’t help but wonder how much of his life he’s spent doing that. Catering to the more dominant personalities around him in the interest of keeping the peace. 

“Excuse me,” a voice says from somewhere behind the cop’s shoulder, and he turns to see a black-clad deacon standing at the end of the aisle.

“Thank you for having us, it was a lovely service—” Malcolm has already started to fill the silence, pasting on a smile as he extends a hand to the older man.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you both to leave,” the deacon says without preamble, ignoring Malcolm’s outstretched hand. 

JT blinks, unsure if he heard correctly. Casts a confused look at the crowd around them, wondering if he’s talking to someone else.

Bright looks equally taken aback, blue eyes wide. 

“Oh. Why?”

The cop watches the deacon’s lip curl slightly, a deep crease between his eyebrows like he’s fighting not to scowl. 

“This is a church of god,” the man says with feigned patience, “I’m afraid there is no tolerance for deviant practices in our congregation.”

JT feels a blaze of warmth rush up his neck to his cheeks, anger sparking in his chest like a grenade. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what the asshole is talking about. 

“We weren’t doing anything wrong,” Malcolm tries to protest, sounding utterly bewildered, “we just came for mass—”

“Homosexuality is an unforgivable sin. I’m sorry, but you’ll both have to leave. Immediately.”

JT feels himself shifting forward, a scathing retort on his lips. He doesn’t get a chance to erupt. 

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Ainsley’s voice cuts through their shocked silence, and she sounds anything _but_ sorry. She steps in front of Malcolm, and JT has no idea where she materialized from but he doesn’t envy the clergyman standing awkwardly in front of her. 

“What the hell did you just say to my brother?” 

She’s about five and a half feet in heels but she might as well have been eight feet tall in the moment, pure wrath gleaming behind her eyes. 

The deacon withers under her stormy glare, looks almost physically ready to back down. 

“We don’t condone this kind of aberrant behavior under our roof,” he somehow finds the nerve to say, gesturing stiffly to Malcolm and JT, “it’s unnatural.”

“Why don’t you _condone_ my foot straight up your—” 

Malcolm says something quietly to her that JT doesn’t quite catch, grabs her shoulder and starts to pull her away. 

“No, Malcolm,” she hisses, yanking her arm out of his grip, “we don’t have to take this bullshit.”

“ _Ains_ ,” Malcolm sounds exasperated, utterly defeated. “Come on, please—”

Ainsley must have spotted Jessica because a look of determination comes over her face. “You stay right here, we’re not going anywhere,” she says venomously before making her way into the crowd towards her mother.

“I’m so sorry.” Bright turns to JT, looking shattered. “We should just… go. This could get dramatic.”

JT is battling something ugly and dark inside himself as he stares the clergyman down, imagining a world where he could punch the man right in his wrinkled old mouth without losing his job. 

“Please,” Malcolm sounds urgent, both hands wrapped around JT’s upper arm as he struggles to pull him towards the door like he knows exactly what the cop is imagining. “It’s not worth it, come on.”

It’s a blow to his pride to turn away, to let Malcolm tug him towards the doors and the cold air outside. There’s a thunderstorm in his chest, a tornado of rage and crashing humiliation, of _this is all wrong_ and hopeless disgust. With the church, with god and everything he stands for. With himself. 

“This is so fucked up,” he growls through his teeth, and he knows he’s dragging his feet but he can’t help it. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I know.” The cracks are starting to show as Malcolm’s brows pull together, his eyes cast downwards as he stares at his feet. “I’m so sorry, this is my fault.”

“Like hell it is.” JT doesn’t care who sees him anymore. He throws an arm around Bright’s neck, pulls him in close to his side. He figures if they’re already getting thrown out on the streets like lepers, they have nothing to lose. 

They don’t quite make it to the lobby before they hear Jessica’s voice behind them, raised in righteous indignation.

Malcolm seems to shrink in on himself; JT can almost feel it as his grip tightens. The cop is angrier than he’s felt in years, trying desperately to keep a hold on himself. Bright is already dealing with enough, and the fear of adding to that burden is the only thing that keeps him together.

“Mrs. Whitly,” a frantic male voice is trying to interrupt Jessica’s loud tirade, “If you’ll just wait a moment—”

“Don’t patronize me Father Russo,” Jessica raises her voice as she storms into the lobby, the lingering crowds wisely parting before her. “My family is clearly unwelcome in your parish.” 

There’s a dark satisfaction in seeing the near panic on the old man’s face as he follows behind her, simpering and pleading for her to see reason.

“I placed a very generous donation in the offering plate,” Jessica interrupts him with sickly-sweet poison dripping from her voice. “Don’t embarrass yourselves by trying to cash it. I’ll be cancelling the check.”

She turns on her heel, her coat whipping behind her as she stomps towards JT and Malcolm.

There’s a small crowd of homeless stragglers waiting on the stone steps outside the church, no doubt hoping to benefit from the overflow of holiday spirit as the city’s rich and famous make their yearly appearance. They hold out dirty hands as Ainsley skirts past them, making a beeline for the car. 

A man in a grimy ballcap reaches out and snags the sleeve of Malcolm’s coat. Bright recoils at the unexpected contact, almost knocking JT over.

And maybe he’s on edge, bubbling with humiliation and rage, but something in the cop snaps at the sight. He’s a little rougher than necessary as he hits the man’s arm away, pushes him back a step and bodily inserts himself between Malcolm and the stranger.

“Don’t fucking touch people, asshole,” JT snaps, “someone might take it personal.” He pulls his coat back as he says it, the streetlights glinting off the badge on his belt. 

It has the desired effect, and the man scuttles back a few steps. 

Jessica appears, seemingly unfazed by the small crowd of people she finds herself surrounded by. If anything there’s a calculating gleam in her eyes.

“Oh, look at you poor vagrants,” she says condescendingly, “you look hungry!” 

Malcolm groans and covers his eyes with a hand like he knows what’s coming. 

JT watches in blank shock as Jessica pulls a wallet out of her expensive purse, the group of dirty-faced men and women crowding in with thirsty eyes. Jessica produces a wad of cash and starts distributing fifty-dollar bills like they’re business cards.

“There—that’s a much better investment don’t you think,” she flashes a cheshire cat grin at JT when she catches him staring. She finishes her strangely extravagant show when her wallet goes empty, and then waves them away with disinterest. 

“Now, go bother somebody else,” she tells them imperiously, “those blustering hypocrites in there aren’t worth your time.”

Some of them turn on their heels and take off down the street, unwilling to press their luck. Others stare after Jessica as she lifts her chin up and gets in the limo, her every motion sharp with irritated energy. 

JT, shocked into silence, looks at Malcolm, who shrugs helplessly. 

“I’m _so_ sorry,” he mumbles, “she gets like this sometimes.”

Shaking his head, JT mutely guides Bright into the limo with a hand on the small of his back, slides in after him. 

The four of them sit there in the charged silence for a long moment, flecks of snow clinging to their clothes. 

“You just gave away nine hundred dollars to spite that priest,” Malcolm says at last, and his eyes are shining with laughter.

“What?” Jessica raises a manicured hand dismissively. “He was _rude._ ”

Malcolm laughs. A strangled sound that starts in his chest and bubbles out like an overflowing kettle. 

It takes him a moment, waiting for the heightened sense of anger and indignation to start draining out of him, but eventually JT finds himself laughing too. 

“I never liked that church anyways,” Jessica sighs, looking like she might be about to smile, “they’re so _pretentious_.”

She says it like she’s not sitting in a limo wearing several thousands of dollars in diamonds, and that gets Malcolm laughing all over again. 

JT lets out a long breath, trying to let the tension bleed out of his limbs. He’s almost shaky with residual stress, shocked by how quickly Malcolm seems to have shaken it all off. 

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to come this year, Mother,” Ainsley says scathingly, “those assholes are stuck in the 19th century.”

“Language, darling,” Jessica retorts mildly.

If either woman has questions about the reason behind their confrontational departure, they don’t seem interested in voicing them. The omission strikes JT as strange, but he’s not going to push his luck.

“Merry freaking Christmas,” the cop says instead, shaking his head as he tries to process what just happened. 

Malcolm shoots him a look that’s half mischievous and half adoring, and JT thinks if they didn’t have an audience he wouldn’t be able to resist kissing him right then and there. 

**.**

Jessica tries to convince Malcolm, and JT by extension, to join them for dinner, but Bright is adamant that he’s already made plans. He doesn’t specify what those entail, and JT makes a point to avoid both eye contact and the conversation entirely. 

He’s not entirely sure what, if anything, Bright’s told his family about their relationship and for a moment he thinks he doesn’t really want to know. They seem to be taking his presence in stride, and despite the disastrous outcome of the night he thinks that’s the most he can ask for. 

As the driver lets them out at the curb in front of Malcolm’s apartment, Jessica presents her son with a tall silver decanter leaking steam. 

“Eggnog,” she explains as she kisses his cheek on the sidewalk, “extra rum.”

She surprises them both by hugging JT as well, a graceful and carefully-practiced embrace designed to avoid leaving makeup on his clothing.

“What a lovely coat,” she says meaningfully as she pulls away, squeezing his arms. “It suits you.”

JT’s never been more grateful that his dark skin hides what should have been a telling blush as he thanks her. It comes out as a stilted mumble, but he thinks he gets the point across. 

“Take care of my son,” she says in parting, “disposing of your body on Christmas would be so inconvenient.” 

So maybe she knows more than she’s been letting on after all, JT thinks as he stands in stunned silence after that throwaway comment. 

Malcolm waves as the car pulls away, offers JT an awkward smile.

“Guess our plans are off tonight; I’d hate to be _inconvenient_ ,” JT can’t resist jabbing as he follows the shorter man upstairs.

“I’m so sorry,” Malcolm groans as he fishes for his keys, “she can be a little overbearing.”

“Pretty sure that’s what moms are for,” the cop grins, flipping on the lights as Malcolm toes off his dress shoes and straightens them into a neat right angle beside the door. 

JT follows suit, his hastily-shined court shoes looking comically large sitting next to Bright’s wingtips. 

“So you’re saying your mother is going to threaten to kill me when we meet?”

JT snorts, hanging his new coat on the back of a barstool and loosening his tie. “Maybe by feeding you until your stomach explodes. She’s gonna tell you you’re too skinny, fair warning.”

The idea of introducing Bright to his own mother is a strangely warming one, and despite the casual tone of their banter it’s meaningful. That they can have these conversations so easily, implying the kind of long-term plans for the future they’ve never dared to voice. 

They share a glass of eggnog at the bartop, and when Jessica mentioned _extra rum_ apparently she meant _mostly_ rum. A second steaming mug enough to make Malcolm visibly tipsy, strands of hair falling into his eyes as a rosy glow spreads across his cheeks.

The cop sits on his barstool and watches the kid waver around the kitchen, his chest feeling content, full to capacity just from the sight of him. It’s enough to make him forget what happened earlier, how ignorance crawled under his skin and worked him into a rage he’s not proud of. Right now, it doesn’t seem to matter.

“We should start a tradition,” Malcolm states abruptly, swaying as he heads across the room, and at this point JT knows him well enough to recognize that the comment isn’t as random as it sounds. 

“Oh?” JT plays along, pretending it doesn’t warm him up inside to hear that Malcolm anticipates spending enough future holidays together to warrant a “tradition.” 

“What do normal people do?” Bright is thinking out loud, shuffling through a stack of records from the turntable cupboard. “Build gingerbread houses, Christmas caroling?”

“No and _no_.” The cop vetoes those options firmly, walking up to stand behind Malcolm. 

He presses his chest against the smaller man’s back, reaching over the profiler’s arm to pull _White Christmas_ out of the pile. He presents it to Malcolm, who looks pleased by the choice. The cop wraps his arms around the profiler’s waist as he watches long fingers work. Sliding the vinyl out of its sleeve and setting it carefully on the turntable. 

Bing Crosby’s velvet voice crackles out of the speakers and JT gently turns Malcolm around to face him.

“This works too.” Malcolm sounds a little breathless. He slides one hand into JT’s big one as they sway to the slow music.

“Yeah, I think I could live with this,” JT says quietly into the warm air between them, letting a smile tug at his lips. “We’ve already had the eggnog and homicide.” 

“Don’t forget getting kicked out of church,” Bright adds with mock severity. “I hear that’s pretty standard holiday spirit.”

“Oh, and we almost got jumped by hobos. But your mother paid them off.”

“I got to hear you sing.” Malcolm’s eyes sparkle as he goes down the list. “Might be my favorite Christmas present ever, if I’m being honest.”

“That wasn’t even your real present,” JT slides his hand across Malcolm’s lower back, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of feeling the eager way the body in his arms molds against him. 

“You’re implying you got me something!” Malcolm looks delighted by the concept. “Do I get a hint, Detective?”

“I’m dreaming, of a whiiite Christmas,” JT sings lazily along with the record, an obvious attempt to derail that line of questioning.

It’s clear Bright doesn’t mind in the slightest. He looks up at JT with something warm and heartbreaking in his eyes. Affection and everything that comes with it. Adoration, maybe. Too much to put a name too.

Truth be told, JT’s never thought of himself as anything special. Saw an average man in the mirror each morning with an average job, grinding through every day with no real purpose or destination. Earning a check and paying his bills and trying to stay afloat when old demons start scratching at the walls. 

But when Malcolm looks at him like _that,_ he doesn’t feel any of those things. He only remembers parts of himself that he thought he buried a long time ago, and the way those pieces seem to sigh with relief when Bright touches him. He feels vibrant and strong and alive, and he doesn’t know what’s going to happen to them next week or next year but he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he has Malcolm to thank for that. 

The song ends, the record skipping into a low hum as the next track starts to play. He’s not sure what song it is and he doesn’t much care.

  
He lets his hand slide up Bright’s shoulder to the back of his neck, squeezing lightly. Drinking in the way the kid’s eyelids flutter half-closed at the touch. 

JT kisses him. Slow and deep and sweet, almost intoxicated by the taste of warm lips under his own. And they’ve kissed a thousand times before, in a thousand stolen moments, but it somehow always feels like the first time all over again. Hypnotic. Exhilarating. Sparking a flutter of need and passion somewhere in his gut like he’s a kid again.

Bright kisses him back, and he’ll be damned if that ever stops doing funny things to his heart. It surprises him every time, the idea that someone like Malcolm would ever _kiss_ someone like him. Would ever want him. Want to be in his arms, in his bed. In his life. 

“I should have done _that_ in church,” the cop says with a wicked smile, “really give ‘em a reason to kick us out.”

Malcolm laughs, looking dazed, and knowing he can have that effect on the kid makes JT’s stomach flutter all over again.

“Oh! We—we should get mistletoe.” It’s a shaky rush of air, and Bright is all flushed skin, tousled hair and glazed eyes.

“Why,” JT breathes against his lips, “I’ll kiss you anyways.”

He proves it. 

**.**

  
  


Malcolm sits at the kitchen island, and this time it’s his turn to watch patiently as JT retrieves the brown paper bags he brought with him from his apartment. 

“I can do a lot of things, but I’m pretty hopeless with wrapping paper,” the cop says by way of apology as he sets the bags on the counter.

“I thought we weren’t doing gifts,” Malcolm tries again to protest, but the childish sparkle in his eyes betrays him. 

“Hypocrite,” JT scolds mildly. 

He pulls a case of energy drinks out, sets them on the granite. Monsters and Five Hour energy shots. Follows with a foil-wrapped bag of dark roast coffee beans from the corner shop Malcolm loves. He watches Bright’s intrigued, if mildly confused expression.

“Caffeine?” Malcolm guesses, raising an eyebrow.

“Oh, that’s for me,” JT says smugly. “Dinner—” he taps first the energy drinks, and then the coffee, “—and breakfast.”

The last item he pulls out is a boxed DVD set.

“ _The Great British Bake Off,_ ” he reads, holding the box against his chest and tapping the title with one finger. 

Malcolm tilts his head back and laughs, and it sounds like music. 

“You _didn’t_ ,” he huffs when he recovers, wiping his watering eyes. “I told you about that in confidence, Detective.”

“I ain’t telling anyone,” JT looks around the apartment, feigning innocence. “Far as I’m concerned your weird British TV fetish is between you and god, alright.”

“Who we don’t believe in, if I recall,” Malcolm chuckles as he takes the DVDs out of the JT’s hands. “Or maybe he doesn’t believe in us? I lose track.” He’s turning the small box over reverently, like the cheap cardboard is made of diamonds. “I can’t believe you remembered this...”

“I remember stuff. Sometimes.”

“So how does all this go together?” Malcolm still looks amused, if a bit bewildered, gesturing to the array of items now laid out on his countertop.

“This is Christmas Eve,” JT shrugs like it should be self-explanatory. “I know you ain’t gonna sleep tonight, so. I’m not either.”

Malcolm stares at him like he just grew another head, and JT wasn’t sure if he’d ever be able to pull off surprising the kid but he’s been wrong before. 

“You….” Bright can’t seem to find the words, and he stares at the coffee, the cans of caffeine, like he’s never seen them before.

“We’re gonna sit on that couch,” JT says quietly, circling the corner of the counter to stand between Malcolm’s legs, threading his fingers up the side of the profiler’s jaw and through his hair. 

“We’re gonna put on your dumb baking show. Finish off that eggnog. I’m gonna chug caffeine like I don’t have an emotional attachment to my liver, and we’re gonna spend Christmas Eve like we should. Together.”

Malcolm’s eyes are shining with emotion as he finally drags them back up to meet JT’s brown ones, and the cop gives him time to work it out in his head. Lets him zip through endless complex equations and thought patterns until he figures out whatever he needs to figure out.

“You’d do that for me?” Bright asks eventually, and it’s only a whisper, a breath.

“Every night, if I could.”

He wants to say more. Wants to tell the kid he _deserves_ it and to stop looking like a kicked puppy who doesn’t know what to do with himself. More than anything, he wants to get it through that thick, stubborn skull that JT is perfectly content to simply be here with him, sharing the same air. That Malcolm is worth his time and his love and isn’t just someone he wants to fix.

“You’re not mad I got us kicked out?” Malcolm finally puts a voice to what he’s really thinking, and despite how well he seemed to brush off the earlier events of the night, JT had a feeling it was going to come back up.

“Pretty sure I did that.” the cop makes sure to meet his eyes when he says it, willing Bright to believe what he’s saying. “And you better believe I’d do it all over again.”

**.**

They end up on the couch in a nest of blankets, the massive screen playing Malcolm’s guilty pleasure while a candle burns on the coffee table beside their half-empty mugs of eggnog. It smells like pine trees and Christmas, mingling with the aroma of fresh coffee drifting in from the kitchen. 

Malcolm’s legs are thrown across JT’s on the ottoman, and the cop thinks he’s never felt more content in his life. 

“Thank you,” says Malcolm, and his eyes are still fixed on the glowing TV screen. If JT concentrates he thinks he can see the entire reflection playing back to him in those vibrant baby blues.

“For…?”

Bright turns his chin to offer a half-smile. “Oh, you know. For coming with me tonight. Putting up with my mother, with everything. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if you would.”

“Come with you, or put up with your mother?” JT can’t resist teasing, drinking in the sight of Bright’s face. Thinking he’ll never stop losing his breath just a little bit when the kid looks at him like that.

“Both?”

“I’m glad you asked me to come,” he says sincerely. “I know it was kind of… a big step. 

“Not as big as you think. I was ready.”

It’s simple and honest and it makes JT’s heart flip in his chest. 

Blissfully ignorant of the effect his words are having on the cop, Malcolm lets out a long sigh as he relaxes into the blankets. 

“This is, without a doubt, the best Christmas of my life.”

Secretly, JT hopes that’s not a true statement. Hopes Malcolm’s had endless happy memories on countless Christmases past, and that they’ll only get better from here.

“It ain’t even midnight,” JT huffs, squeezing the smaller hand tangled in his own. 

“Still.” Bright’s lips quirk up. His thumb brushes idly over JT’s skin, rhythmic and comforting. He glances over at the cop, catches him watching him and his half-smile blooms into a real one. “How do you ever plan to top this?”

JT thinks of an old black box sitting in a drawer in his dresser at home, his grandfather’s silver band nestled inside on pillows of cream-colored satin. Thinks of the way the small case felt in his palm when he picked it up and turned it over in his hands, his mind involuntarily whisking him away, through endless possibilities of a happy future. Not nearly as lonely as bleak or colorless as the one he always imagined for himself. 

Hopeful. Full and soft and vivid. _Bright_.

“Oh, I guess I’ll just have to figure it out.”

He tugs Malcolm towards him, pulls his back against the cop’s chest and wraps a big arm around his shoulders. He drops his nose into Malcolm’s hair, presses a lingering kiss into the soft tresses.

“Love you,” Malcolm says quietly against JT’s arm, and for a moment he forgets how to breathe.

He stares at the TV, wondering if his pounding heart is going to explode before he manages to get a word out. 

“I love you too,” he says back, holding Malcolm against him with all his strength. He hasn’t said those words to anyone in ten years, but they feel natural rolling off his tongue. They feel right.

Abandoned on the counter somewhere, JT’s watch beeps twice, signaling the hour. A bell rings down the street in the midnight quiet. 

“And that’s Merry Christmas,” he says quietly, his arms tightening. “The first of many.” 

They lay on the couch until morning, buzzed and warm and floating in each other’s company. JT drinks his coffee and Malcolm finishes off the eggnog and watches his baking show. 

It’s almost noon before exhaustion catches up to both of them and they wordlessly move to the bed, tangling in each other’s warmth under a pile of heavy blankets. 

If he spends every Christmas for the rest of his life just like this, JT thinks, he’ll be the luckiest man alive.

In the morning light dim and glowing through fogged glass, they fall asleep watching the snow. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This epic saga of tooth-rotting sugary fluff was inspired wholly by my beautiful queer family over at the #Brimel discord server. (https://discord.gg/K6tqRws)
> 
> Christmas is a really tough time of year for me. I tend to hermit up and kind of hide from the world until it all blows over, mostly to avoid major depression and general Grinch-like behavior. I don't have any healthy family relationships so I tend to spend the holidays alone or working to distract myself. 
> 
> Having these beautiful individuals to talk to and bond with and brainstorm off of has been such a huge morale boost for me, I don't even know how to describe it.
> 
> So with that out of the way, this fic is lovingly dedicated to Jay, McRaider, theyhulk, Rosedraquia, and of course eringeosphere who also beta's for me and does a kickass job.


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